by Amy Vansant
Catriona looked at Tyler. “I need the boy back by Monday.”
Alain sniffed. “Zen I would hurry.”
The door opened and Broch stepped out of the way as Dez entered, butt-first, dragging the unconscious body of her partner behind her. She pulled him into the room and dropped his arms to the ground. Puffing, she leaned against the wall to catch her breath.
Alain peered at his fallen soldier and then back at Broch. “You did ziss?”
Broch bobbed his head in Catriona’s direction. “Ah’m nae sure. Ask her, she micht hae dane it all oan her own.”
Catriona closed her eyes and tilted her face to the ceiling. “I swear, listening to you two destroy the English language is giving me a headache.” She pointed at Alain. “Tell me where I can find Mo.”
“She’s at hair design studio.”
“She’s getting her hair done?”
With a huff, Alain pulled a pad of paper and pen from a drawer in the sofa’s end table.
“There’s the pen,” grumbled Catriona.
Alain jotted down an address before thrusting the paper at Catriona. “Hair design studio.”
“Oh. Her design studio. Got it. Seriously Alain, you’ve been here for like twenty years. Lose the accent. You’re worse than Arnold Schwarzenegger. At least Broch just got here.”
She snatched the paper from Alain’s hands and motioned to Broch.
“Let’s go.”
Tyler wailed, his eyes wild. “No. Wait! What about me?”
Catriona stopped to glare at Alain. “No more body graffiti.”
Alain closed his eyes and stuck his nose in the air. “One for every day he doesn’t pay.”
Catriona shook her head. “Uh-uh. No more cutting. He has one more mark on him when I get back and I swear I’ll set Mo up with the first multi-millionaire I can find.”
Alain gasped, appearing genuinely concerned.
“And untie him. Get Dez to keep an eye on him. He won’t run. Will you Tyler?”
Tyler sniffed. “No. I swear. My arms are killing me.”
Alain sighed.
Catriona nodded and returned her attention to the Frenchman. “Promise me, Alain.”
The little man flopped into the sofa like a petulant teenager.
“Fine.”
Chapter Ten
Sean waved to Fernando, Parasol Picture’s gatekeeper for the day, as he rolled off the lot in his beloved Jaguar. He’d bought it a few years after arriving in Los Angeles in 1995, via 1721 Scotland.
He knew all too well how confused Broch must have been when he appeared in Hollywood.
When Sean arrived, he’d been dazed both by the time-travel and the knowledge that his wife and infant boy had been killed by Thorn Campbell’s men. If he’d known then that baby Broch had somehow survived, well, who knew. It might have been worse for him knowing he’d abandoned his son, unwillingly or not.
After nearly thirty years of reflection, he suspected he’d allowed his own death to happen. There was no reason for him to lose his sword fight with Thorn Campbell. He’d been reckless and all but begged the man to run him through.
He hadn’t wanted to live without Isobel and his boy.
But then, there he was. Alive in Hollywood. His wife and son, dead or alive, hundreds of years in the past. It hadn’t felt as if they were very far away at the time. He’d worn his grief like a yoke for years, but somehow he’d found the strength to start a new life in a new time. And for whatever reason, the moment he’d seen that 1969 Jaguar Series II E-Type OTS convertible, he knew his new life included it. The car was one of the few pleasures he’d allowed himself in those early years.
Landing on the Parasol Pictures lot had been lucky. Even luckier, Luther found him. Luther was Parasol’s entire security force back then. He could have had Sean arrested. Instead, he’d helped him, whether or not he believed Sean’s lies and later his confessions of time travel.
Good old Luther. They’d been through a lot since then.
Sean eased the brakes of the Jag, stopping at the threshold between the outer lot and the street.
Something doesn’t feel right.
With a subtle movement of his head he peered into the side view mirror.
There it was. Movement. A man sat in a car behind him in the lot. A gray Lexus. His gloved fingers tapped on the wheel.
He couldn’t make out the man’s face, but he felt his eyes on him.
Rune. Catriona and Fiona’s father. It had to be.
Sean hit the gas and screeched into traffic. Keeping an eye in his rearview mirror, he spotted the Lexus as it pulled from the lot and turned in his direction.
Rune’s pursuit came as no surprise. Since Catriona told him about her father visiting Fiona’s hospital room, he knew their paths would cross. After all, he’d nearly cut the man in two trying to save little Catriona from his grasp. Chances weren’t good Rune was willing to let that go.
After their battle, the gaunt, specter of a man had disappeared, presumably time-jumping to heal. But to come back? Sean had never had any control over where he appeared. Could Rune’s reappearance be a coincidence?
Catriona and Broch were safe in Las Vegas. That was good.
I need to finish this before they get back.
Sean drove towards the desert until he could pull down a road where he knew traffic would be scarce. The Lexus made the same turn and followed, pacing a hundred yards behind him.
Sean pulled over, the Jag’s tires crunching on the soft dirt.
The Lexus arrived a few moments later. It slowed, and then drifted to the roadside, parking twenty feet behind him.
No more pretending.
They sat in their cars for five minutes. Sean counted the seconds. He couldn’t stop looking at his watch.
Patient bastard.
Tired of waiting, Sean opened his door and stepped out. He turned to face his pursuer.
The Lexus door opened and a lanky man stepped out. Wearing a plaid shirt buttoned high on his neck, and jeans that made his skinny limbs look like spider legs, he stood staring at Sean.
“You look like a cartoon cowboy,” said Sean to break the ice.
The man didn’t answer.
“I know you’re Fiona’s father. Rune. That’s your name?”
Rune nodded.
“What do you want?” Sean shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He didn’t like doing all the talking. Catriona would have laughed to see him as the chatty one.
Rune’s gloved hand lifted and slipped behind him. When it reappeared, it held a gun.
Shite.
Sean hadn’t considered gunplay an option. His own gun sat in his desk drawer back at the office.
Stupid.
Rune fired. Sean ducked and scrambled to hide below the front of his car.
Firing a second time, Rune paced forward.
Sean looked behind him. Nowhere to run except down the road. He’d be an easy target.
I can’t just sit here, waiting for him to show up.
Sean shifted to the side of the car and slipped into the passenger seat.
Rune continued to advance.
A bullet crashed through the back window of the Jaguar and whizzed inches from Sean’s head before embedding in the dash.
Not the Jag. Sonovabitch.
Sean threw his legs into the driver’s side and hit the gas as he slammed the car into gear. The driver’s side window shattered, the bullet grazing his arm. He heard the sand beneath the outer wheel grind until the driver side tire caught, shooting the car forward. Sean wrestled the vehicle to the road.
Something thudded against the side of the car. Sean glanced in the rear view to find Rune spinning toward the middle of the road, trying to find his feet. Pulling from the roadside, Sean had clipped his hip.
He’d been that close to a bullet in the head.
Sean’s attention moved from the spinning man to the enormous thing barreling down behind him. The eighteen-wheeler roared towards Rune.
The truck’s brakes screamed as Rune stumbled into its path.
Too late.
Through his broken windows, Sean heard the thud. Rune tossed into the air like a rag doll.
Sean slammed on his own brakes. He thrust his head through the shattered driver’s side window to watch Rune’s body as it arced through the air.
He never landed.
Sean blinked, wondering how he’d lost sight of the man.
There was no second thud as the body hit the pavement.
The truck had come to a stop, nearly jackknifed in the middle of the road. The driver jumped down from his cab and ran to where Rune had been standing. The driver spun, arms outstretched on either side of him, mouth gaping, searching for the man he’d struck.
Time to leave.
While Sean had considered throwing the Jag into reverse and running over Rune to ensure the bastard’s need to travel far, far away—the ghoul had never landed. Disappearing mid-air didn’t work within the laws of physics and therefore, couldn’t be good. He might have escaped to another time—slunk off, so someday he could pop up again like a reoccurring case of heartburn.
Sean shifted into gear and hit the gas. He felt confident he was already far enough away the trucker wouldn’t be able to read his plate. That poor man would be lucky if he remembered anything about Sean’s vehicle, considering he’d just struck a man with a vehicle the size of a small train.
Sean gripped the wheel at ten and two.
Could it have been that easy?
Foe arrives, foe is hit by truck. Hopefully Catriona wouldn’t be upset about her father’s second death, though it didn’t seem as though she wanted anything to do with—
A man appeared in the road in front of Sean.
The figure held a gun pointed at him.
Rune.
How—?
A bullet-sized hole appeared in his windshield. Sean didn’t swerve. Rune didn’t move.
Sean pressed the gas to the floor.
Let’s see how you like being run over twice, you son of a—
A second gunshot echoed seconds before he struck the man.
The last thing Sean remembered was a crack in his windshield, right in front of his field of vision.
Not the Jag.
Chapter Eleven
Catriona and Broch gathered their luggage and returned to the front desk to check their bags. Catriona doubted they’d solve all Alain’s problems with Mo before nightfall, but hope sprang eternal.
The Gold wouldn’t let them store their bags with no promise of renting a room, so Catriona produced her studio credit card. She hoped Mo would cooperate. They’d be finished their mission in an hour, and the three of them could head home. She didn’t want to find herself in a hotel room with Kilty for the evening, making a fool out of herself while he strode along his own little moral high ground.
No. She was done trying to pull him off his high-horse. Either he’d come to her or she was done.
Just think about work. Work, work, work.
“We’re going to need to get another taxi to—”
Catriona cut short. She didn’t feel Broch’s presence behind her and the man behind the counter stared at her as if she’d been talking to him.
She turned to find the Highlander gone.
Catriona pushed the two suitcases behind the desk, took her receipt, and scanned the lobby for her missing partner. She spotted Broch near the front door talking to a man making strangely stylized hand gestures.
Magician. Broch had been accosted by a lobby magician.
The roaming entertainer turned his head to pop a blue ball from his mouth. She spotted his white face and grimaced.
Oh god. A mime magician. The worst.
Catriona strode to Broch, thrusting his luggage ticket at him. “Put this in your pocket. It claims your luggage behind the desk there. We have to go.”
“Cat, he made a ball disappear fae yin haind and appear in his gob.”
She nodded. “Yep. He’s a magician. That’s what they do. Gargle balls all day.”
The mime scowled at her and held up an index finger. Not the finger she’d expected after her comment. He was asking them to wait. He pointed to Broch’s jeans pocket.
“Whit? Mah pocket?” Broch slid his fingers inside and pulled out a shiny wad of paper. He unfolded it and gasped.
“Tis a eight of spades. That wis mah card. Ah picked it afore ye—”
Catriona rolled her eyes. “Right. Amazing. Let’s go.”
“But he cam tae shaw me his magic,” protested Broch as she tried to drag him away.
“That’s because he has no friends. That’s why he became a magician in the first place.”
The mime held up his middle finger for her to see.
There it is.
“Nice. Classy mime.” Catriona dragged Broch toward the door.
“Thank ye,” Broch called over his shoulder, holding aloft the folded card. “Thank ye, wizard.”
The mime nodded and waved, shooting Catriona a last angry glare in response to her interrupting his chance at earning a tip.
They walked outside and the dry desert heat quickly warmed their air-conditioned skin.
“Whyfur were ye sae mean tae the painted wizard?”
Catriona sighed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be mean. We just have work to do and mimes freak me out. Anything clown-like. I don’t like people in costumes, but especially clowns.”
“Ah thooght he was a clever jester.” He poked her in the arm. “Ye need tae hae more fun.”
She chuckled. “I keep trying to have fun and you keep shooting me down.”
He stared at her a moment and then smirked. “Ah. Ah see whit yer sayin’. Mibbie we cuid git merit ‘ere, eh? Ah saw a sign...”
“Right. As soon as we get Tyler.”
Broch perked. “Aye?”
“No.”
He frowned.
The hotel’s doorman flagged them a taxi to take them to Mo’s design studio. Broch pressed his face against the glass, staring up at the billboards and flashing marquees.
“Excalibur,” he read aloud. “They hae sword fighting. Kin we gae there?”
“Sure. When Tyler is safe.”
“Aye?”
“No.”
Broch fell silent again. “Whit’s a Spearmint Rhino?”
Catriona snorted a laugh. “It’s a strip club. Men go there to watch women dance naked.”
He blinked at her. “Vegas is mad.”
“That’s why they call it Sin City.”
Broch grunted and blinked at the sign as they passed. “The lassie is bonnie though.”
“That’s a high-end place. The dancers are all tens.”
“Tens?”
“It’s a stupid old rating scale for looks. One to ten, ten being the best-looking.”
“Ah.” He looked at her. “Ah think yer a ten.”
Catriona felt her cheeks grow flush and she felt a wave of embarrassment to be so flattered by such a silly compliment.
She snorted a little laugh and let it go.
They left the lights and glitter of the Strip and traveled several miles into the desert to an industrial park. The taxi rolled in front of a large warehouse with the word Modacious mounted to the front wall. The M and O were in red, the rest of the letters in black script.
Broch and Catriona moved from air conditioning to heat to air conditioning again in the warehouse. Inside, rows of clothing on racks created life-sized mazes with people milling in and out, swatches of fabric, dresses and half-finished tops in their hands. In one corner, a tailor pinned a dress worn by a statuesque redhead and Broch stopped to admire her. She waved and he waved back.
“Does she dance at the Rhino?” he asked Catriona.
She chuckled. “I doubt it. But who knows?”
In the back corner sat an office area, fashioned to look like a quaint cottage built inside the larger warehouse. The walls were glass, al
lowing those inside to monitor warehouse activity.
Catriona headed toward the office, knocking on the glass door to catch the attention of a tall, curvy older woman with bleach-blonde hair coiled atop her head. The woman turned, forehead scrunching behind her large round glasses as she peered over the frames. She motioned for a mousy young woman beside her to open the door.
“Can I help you?” asked the girl.
“I need to speak to Mo.”
“She’s not in. Can I take a message?”
Catriona glanced up at Mo, who stood staring back at her, her already overly plumped lips, pursed.
Catriona turned back to the girl.
“I’m looking right at her.”
The girl shook her head. “She’s unavailable.”
Catriona rolled her eyes and pushed her head inside. She was taller than Mo’s assistant and there was little the girl could do to stop her without throwing her hands above her head and blocking her like a goal-tending basketball player.
“Mo, it’s Catriona. Sean Shaft’s daughter. I work for Parasol Pictures...we met a long time ago.”
Mo’s expression expanded into a smile as she moved to the door, pushing the mousy girl aside.
“Catriona, I deedn’t recahgnize you. You were a teenahgair ze lahst time I sahw you.”
Mo threw her arms around Catriona. Catriona took the opportunity to whisper into the fashion designer’s ear.
“Please drop the accent. I can’t take it anymore. You’ll see why in a second.”
Mo released her and pointed to her worker. “You. Out.”
The minion scurried away and Catriona and Broch entered the office. The temperature felt ten degrees colder inside.
Mo patted Catriona on the arm. “How did you know my little secret?” she said, her French lilt replaced by something decidedly more Midwest. “It’s a pain, but people buy my clothes faster when they think I’m French and not from some Podunk town in Northwest Michigan.”
“I remember you and Sean talking when I was little.” In truth, Catriona mostly remembered Sean laughing while watching an interview with Mo using her cartoonish French accent on television.
Mo fanned herself. “Oh your father. What a sexy, sexy man he was. Is, probably. Is he married now? I might have an opening...”
“No. And that’s sort of what I came to talk to you about.”